


Lethe

by LadyDarkrose



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Blood, Coven of the Articulate, M/M, Night Island, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 15:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10993512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDarkrose/pseuds/LadyDarkrose
Summary: In the aftermath of Akasha's death, Marius and Armand are reunited.





	Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> Lethe is one of the five rivers that flows through Hades. Those who drank from it experienced complete forgetfulness. Lethe was also the name of the Greek spirit of forgetfulness. 
> 
>  
> 
> They're vamps, expect bloodplay. Based on the poem Lethe by Charles Baudelaire.

How can one with so beguilingly innocent and beautiful a face harbor a heart so stony and cold? The Fates have mistreated him badly, transforming this once responsive and singular cherub into the calculating, ruthless demon he's become, and my heart weeps for my role in it.

For all his icy airs, there is a dark sensuality about my seraphic fledgling. It permeates every inch of his being, in the large amber eyes that reveal knowledge far beyond his apparent years, in his lush mouth that begs without words to be taken roughly with bruising kisses, in the graceful movements of his lithe body.

Did he know now that I watched him as he moved about this room, pacing like a caged beast? Did he feel the greedy desire of the eyes that drank his form in and swallowed it whole? Surely some sense of my longing for him radiated out from me like so many sonic waves, palpable to so finely tuned a mind as his. Alas, alack - such a thing is not possible for us. The closeness of our blood bond will not allow. But if it were, what his response? So many centuries have passed since we were as master and apprentice, in all manner of instruction. Does he long still, as do I, for those remembered nights passed in a luxuriant bed, covered in the finest silks and brocades, to come to pass once again?

_Come to my arms, cruel and sullen thing;_ _Indolent beast, come to my arms again,_ _For I would plunge my fingers in your mane_ _And be a long time unremembering._

I feel my eyes darken as I watch him, my lust growing with each seductive movement he makes. Does he remember the time before his immortality? Or has the cruelty of life immortal robbed from him those Elysian nights spent wrapped in my tight embrace? It's unbearable, being so close to him and yet not being able to touch him. Such torment, wondering now, as I am, if he would readily accept an invitation to my arms, my bed, were I to extend it, or rebuff me for so amorous an advance.

My heart thundering in my ears is stronger than a cadence being beaten on a host of drums, and I wonder that he can't hear it. Its throbbing is echoed throughout my being, from my fangs to loins, the sensitive organ growing more taut and stiff with each fleeting memory, each furtive glance. I'm in an absolute Hell of wanting him, needing to feel him again, wondering all the while if I have a right to do so. Some allege I stole his childhood from him, that I seduced him. This thought plagues me even now. How to explain to them and make them understand that this child, this beautiful, enticing child, seduced and bewitched me every bit as much as I did him? Perhaps more so.

He turns now, he knows I'm here, and my heart rate soars for this recognition. His dark eyes fix me steadily, and the hazy shadow of lust in them is unmistakable. If I didn't know it wasn't possible, I'd believe he'd read my thoughts, knew of my desire. But no, the truth of it far surpasses that. The desire he so obviously displays is of his own conjuring, my only role in it that which I played in whatever memory has sparked his arousal.

Silently he advances toward the shadowed niche that has been my surreptitious point of observation, his face a maddening blend of a lover's passion and childlike wonder. Close, oh, so very close; I can feel his breath on my face, the subtle heat radiating between us. His delicate face turned upwards, lucid eyes growing smoky with lust as a tentative hand presses to my chest, feeling the pounding of my heart beneath it. Of their own accord, my arms are around him, drawing him ever closer, and he molds the full length of his body against mine. A divine madness steals over me, feeling the press of his stiff organ against mine, both crying out to each other for release.

Without words, we move from this place, swiftly seeking out the comforts of my opulent bed, very like that one we'd passed so many nights in all those centuries ago. I can't believe this is happening, that I once again find my wanton child surrendering himself to our passion.

_I long to sleep; I think that from a stark Slumber like death I would awake the same As I once was, and lavish without shame  
Caresses upon your body, glowing and dark._

Guiding one another to the bed, we mount it, lost for the moment in simply gazing at each other. I tremble at his slightest touch, his hands working their way across my body, disrobing me with care. What gentle caresses he lavishes on me! His restraint is astounding, and I fight to reign in my more ferine impulses.

On his feet now, he writhes out of his own garments slowly, a great serpent shedding his skin, and basks in the glow of my obvious worship. How much more sublime his body has become, aged some five centuries as it has been!

Rejoining me on the bed, our hands roam freely, reacquainting ourselves with bodies once as familiar to us as our own. Feathery kisses, his lips meet mine and, lacerating his tongue against my fangs, the sweet nectar of his blood flows between us. With the abandon of an infant, I draw his weeping tongue between my lips and suckle at this offering as if it were a teat, his blood mother's milk. How lush, how rich. His power has inevitably increased with the passing of time.

Releasing his mouth, I sigh his name against it: "Amadeo..." but he silences me, slender fingers pressed to my lips, and shakes his head. Those fingers then glide their way down my throat, and with a single razor-like nail, he slices open the cool white flesh of my chest. Blood so ancient that it's nearly black rises, and the contrast against the skin is so startling. Don't ponder on that now. Amadeo's mouth is playing at this wound, his sinuous tongue lapping at it with cat-like precision as his hands slip over my hips, drawing me closer. My eyes close and I'm lost in the sensation, my fingers twining themselves in the leaping mane of his auburn waves. He sinks lower, tongue tracing patterns more delicate than the finest Venetian lace across my belly, and I shudder, remembering the ecstasy of what's to come.

Like the plushest velvet is his mouth as he draws the organ between his lips, swallowing me possessively. Long, languidly indulgent strokes of his soft and pliant tongue over the granite hardness; he's driving me to madness, and then the sharp sting of his fangs stabbing into me. Like a fountainhead, blood surges from the engorged and throbbing organ and his greedy tongue catches every drop.

I feel as if I'm somewhere outside myself, that I'm observing all of this as much as participating in it. Perhaps it's simply too great a shock for my mind to comprehend, that so willingly, my beloved Amadeo is employing every method of seduction upon me. I'm struck suddenly that there's no true male equivalent of the term Lolita. There really ought to be; how else could the wan creature below me be described? Was he ever so precocious as a mortal? Oh, indeed he was, I remember it too well. Perhaps he wasn't so direct about it then as he is now, but always had he known what he wanted from me, and just how to go about getting it. The taunting words, the willful challenges to my authority. All to bring about the swift and harsh punishment he knew would soon melt into our lovemaking.

Eyes cast down, I watch, delighted by the pure lack of inhibition with which his mouth is working over me, the tip of his pale pink tongue following the trail of deep blue veins running the length the shaft. I can stand this teasing no longer. My arms around him, I draw him from his task, gathering him against me, burying my face in the tangle of hair at his neck, breathing in his sweet scent.

_And bury myself in you, and breathe your wild perfume remorselessly for one more hour;  
And breathe again, as of a ruined flower, The fragrance of the love you have defiled._

Holding his form tightly, my left arm about his narrow waist, my right hand fondles and caresses his pulsating organ as my fangs puncture his supple skin of his throat. His soft moans of passion for both sensations heighten my own arousal as his hips grind against me, pushing himself more roughly into my hand. Deeply, deeply I draw on the wound at his throat, and his back arches, head back as he whispers my name again and again as if it were a prayer.

Drawing back, his blood still on my tongue, I kiss him, tasting in his mouth my own essence mixing with his, becoming ours. My hand releases him from its grasp, and he whimpers his displeasure at so suddenly being bereft of this touch. I coo softly to him for his patience, his understanding as this hand slips behind him, nails digging into his taut buttocks. His blood flows freely over my fingers, coating them, making them slick, and he understands now why. Leaning against me, his head resting on my shoulder, his slender body trembles in anticipation as my fingers slip through the cleft of his buttocks, slowly working their way into the tight, muscular orifice, first one, then two, adding another as he seems willing.

He nips hard at my shoulder, stifling the cry rising in his throat as the fingers invade him, exploring, stroking. In the bluest of vernacularisms, he voices his desire, begging for more than the fingers that hold him in thrall. I'm only too happy to comply, allowing my nails to scratch him deeply inside, ensuring he's well prepared for what's to come.

Eagerly, he goes onto his back; his silky, milk-white thighs spread wide, hips raised invitingly. Watching as he takes himself in hand with languid caresses to the length of his shaft, I quickly sink my fangs into the palm of my hand and massage the blood into my own organ, then mount him, the head pressing between the rounded mounds of his buttocks. My hands on his hips, holding him in place, I hilt myself in him with one smooth stroke, and my beautiful cherub cries out in passion. So deliciously tight, much more so than I remembered, and I cry along with him for the sweetness of it as the undulations of the powerful muscles knead the shaft they surround.

Over and over I pull back to the point of nearly withdrawing, only to thrust into him roughly again and again, though slowly, methodically, praying to whatever gods watch over our kind that this night never ends.

Gazing down upon the angel's face, drinking in his impassioned visage, I watch as his body writhes with pleasure beneath me. His eyes, glowing as embers, burn into mine with such fierceness that I feel my soul being scorched by their all-consuming fire.

His hand has been violently stroking his organ the entirety of this time, and the unevenness of his breathing signals his quickly approaching climax. But I can't let it happen, not just yet; how much more delicious that we should reach that end together! My hand encloses him at the base of the shaft with a vice-like grip, preventing the orgasm from coming too fast. Amadeo protests, begging again and again for release, which I calmly, but firmly, refuse. How perfectly monstrous that I should find him all the more appealing as the crimson tears of frustration streak across his face.

At last, my end is near; the familiar tightness in my groin building to such a degree that I ache, the organ demanding release. Unable to withhold it any longer, my grasp on Amadeo relaxes and together we shudder and sob as wave after transcendent wave of sheer and utter orgasmic bliss wash over us, his blood-rich seed spilling over my pale fingers, mine exploding deep within him.

To drown my sorrow there is no abyss, However deep, that can compare with your bed.   
Forgetfulness has made its country your red Mouth, and the flowing of Lethe is in your kiss.

In silence we lay together after, wrapped up in each other's arms, his head against my chest. My lips press to his smooth forehead as I seek to fix the memory of this moment in my mind forever. Forget for now the horrors of the past, forget the centuries that we've spent apart, wrest asunder by the hand of another, and kept separate by my own foolish pride. Together we now are, and that is all that matters. He is my nepenthe, and I would drink of him until all but him is erased from my memory.

_My doom, henceforward, is my sole desire: As martyrs, being demented in their zeal,  
Shake with delightful spasms upon the wheel, Implore the whip, or puff upon the fire._

Am I wrong to have wanted this so badly? To allow myself to be so inflamed by the ethereal creature who lays dozing in the afterglow of our passion? The being whose youthful appearance is that of a boy nearly thirty years younger than my own indicates. If I am, then so be it. For the one I hold in my arms, I would be damned to the eternal fires of Hell. My sin, my soul, my Amadeo, now and forever.

 


End file.
